


The edge of the deep green sea

by pleasebekidding



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: M/M, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasebekidding/pseuds/pleasebekidding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damon Salvatore had spent the better part of the last two years trying to convince Alaric Saltzman to let him turn him into a vampire. He hadn’t been a particularly patient human and he wasn’t a particularly patient vampire, but he’d been holding out, keeping his end of the bargain, drinking blood bags. Keeping their secret. Being a good boyfriend.<br/>And now it was all going to go to shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Every time we do this

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Yes, events are out of order. It’s fanfiction.  
> Title and chapter titles belong to The Cure, and if you don't know the song, go check that shit out.  
> Massive thanks to my beta, saltzatore: she is the queen of all things Dalaric.

Alaric and Damon hid behind the tree line, about thirty yards behind the house they’d been staking out on and off for the last couple of days.

It was unusual to spend this long on a hunt, but there were three vampires inside, and two of them were considerably older than Damon. Katherine’s age, maybe. They suspected one might be even older, moved with the predatory grace of something that knows its power is absolute. The third was a baby. Could be felled by a harsh look, probably.

The three of them had been picking off tourists for the last few weeks. Liz had put the pattern together and when she had, she’d called Damon to ask for his help finding them. It that had taken a little while. But they’d found them, and trailed them to this house. Nice big house in the suburbs.

Three vampires and maybe two humans, maybe three. There was the owner of the house, chewed up and compelled, though they suspected he might be dead by now. There was the human the vampires had brought with them. No way to tell if he was compelled or not. The owner’s wife, they hadn’t spotted. She was probably dead too.

The upside of a tricky hunt was that it gave them a reason to spend a day or two packing vervain grenades and whittling stakes to fit Alaric’s nifty crossbow, and for no reason he could articulate, Damon always found this entertaining. While Alaric boiled vervain for the darts, cooking it down until it was strong and dark, Damon had to stay away, which was boring and annoying, but less boring and annoying – and less lethal – than breathing the stuff in. So he’d put up with it.

Plan A involved a sudden burst of ultraviolence and a little bit of luck. Plan B relied on the vervain darts and a great deal of panache. But while plan A was only going to work if the vampires had actually killed the owner, plan B would work either way. So relying on the eternity ring to keep Alaric alive, if necessary, they were going with plan B. Unless circumstances were in their favour.

Whatever. They’d figure it out. Damon hated relying on the ring. If he could swing back around to violence, he would.

The vampires were drunk, partying to eighties metal, not nearly concerned enough about staying discreet. Probably never even crossed their minds that anyone could be looking for them. Certainly no one who could actually do them harm.

“Why are we doing this, again?” Alaric whispered, close enough so Damon could feel his warm breath on his ear. “Instead of backing up Liz’s finest?”

Stage-whispered back, “because it’s _fun_. And these guys are douche bags. They’re way too close to Mystic Falls and they’re pissing me off.” Damon licked his lip, smirked. “That music has to stop, too. Good taste demands these guys die horribly.”

Alaric shook his head, smiling. “You head around the front and we’re set to go,” he said, and Damon nodded sharply, disappearing in a blur.

Seconds later, Damon knocked on the front door. It opened, and a confused and pissed-off looking undead redneck – the baby vamp, not more than two years turned – opened it.

“Hi,” Damon said. “Someone order a strip-o-gram?” He tested the barrier with his foot. The owners of the house were definitely dead.

The redneck turned to his buddies. Too young, too weak, or maybe too drunk to even tell Damon was a vampire. “One of you order a stripper?” he asked, mouth slack.

Damon wasted no time reverting to plan A, staked the redneck before the other two could react. Pulled the pin on a grenade, throwing it to the next vampire in line and shouting “catch.” Stepped back out and away from the door, relishing the screams, covering his face against the poisonous dust for the long seconds he knew it would take for it to settle.

He listened for the delightful wet sound of a stake shot from Alaric’s crossbow meeting its mark. Alaric had come in the back door while the vampires were occupied with Damon, and from the sound of it, the stake had hit one of the older vampires through a lung. As the other came out the front door, Damon grabbed his shoulder, launched a long, thin stake up beneath his ribcage.

The vampire started to desiccate instantly, and Damon threw him back inside.

The third vampire, very old, still alive and seriously pissed off, writhed on the ground. Damon crouched at his side.

“You wanna know the secret? Why you’re lying there in pain instead of pulling that out?” He frowned, pretended to listen hard. “Okay, ’m gonna take that as a yes. See, we soak the stakes in vervain, and then we dry them out again. So even if my boyfriend here misses your heart, you’re left squirming like a slug in the sun.” He flashed his prettiest smile, and the vampire tried to lunge at him.

“Dude,” Alaric said, frowning. “That’s just tacky.”

Damon rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said, stepping back, letting Alaric finish. Not flashy. Just efficient.

Alaric’s sense of style was seriously lacking.

Damon stepped into the living room. The human – grief-stricken, and clearly not compelled – was crumpled on the ground, crying. Damon felt the ache in his gums, felt the capillaries around his eyes engorge, and was on him in under a second. Fangs at his throat.

“Damon.”

That tone. Somewhere between disapproving and sad. It never failed to get Damon to stop what he was doing. He shot Alaric a doleful glance.

“If things were different, he could be me.”

Dammit. Teacher’s such a smarty pants.

Damon leaned in close to the human, who wasn’t even smart enough to look scared – just miserable – and he felt a pang of something like pity. “It’s a dumb idea to hang around with vampires, idiot,” he said. “Run home. Find someone human to want. Don’t show your face in Virginia again.”

Damon didn’t even compel him. Should have, but Alaric hated that. He’d regret it soon enough, but for now, Damon just let him go. The man scrambled to his feet and ran, and Damon turned off the music.

“See, told you,” he said, grinning at Alaric. “Fun.”

Alaric rolled his eyes. “Should we call Liz? Get her to take care of the mess?”

“Yep,” Damon answered, popping the p. “Because frankly, I can’t be bothered doing it ourselves.”

He was up in a second, had Alaric’s collar bunched in his fists, aimed a searing kiss at Alaric’s mouth. Alaric returned it, but pulled away too soon, shaking his head.

“You’re way too casual about this, man,” he said, twisting his fingers in Damon’s belt loops. “One of these is gonna go bad.”

Damon scowled. “That’s a jinx. I’m gonna have to punish you for that later.”

He was giddy, stupid, high from the win. As it turned out, _that_ was the jinx.

*

Alaric’s truck was parked half a mile away, and he and Damon were on foot. This afforded the grieving human companion ample time to get in his car, find them, and then ram them both down. Damon wasn’t paying attention; instead he was preoccupied with planning all the things he was going to do to Alaric’s naked body when they got back to Mystic Falls, so the crunch of bones and the shrieking of tyres caught him off guard.

His fault. All his fault.

Being hit by a car couldn’t kill Damon. Obviously. He’d even lined himself up for it, from time to time. Nothing got humans out of a car and vulnerable like thinking they had just killed someone. It was a classic setup, never failed, and it never took Damon longer than twenty seconds to let his bones knit and get on his feet.

Of course, that didn’t mean it didn’t fucking _hurt._ He grunted as he straightened his arms, clicking bones back into place. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Ric? How are you doing?”

Twenty seconds for his bones to knit, for the gashes on his ribcage and skull to close, to get on his feet and to get himself well and truly pissed off.

Another two seconds to realise Alaric wasn’t moving.

Damon calmed himself, thinking. Supernatural death. That’s what the ring is for. He’ll take him back to the boarding house and wait it out.

Except.

The human was just a human, no matter who he’d been hanging out with.

Damon dropped to the ground beside Alaric to assess the damage. Touched his face.

“Ric. Say something.” Damon fought the urge to shake him, force a response. “Ric!”

Alaric’s eyes were open. Blood trickled slowly from his nose, less slowly from his mouth. From cuts and grazes all over his body. But that wasn’t even the problem. The problem was a whole lot of internal bleeding, and the heartbeat that was slowing even as Damon listened.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” Damon said, resting his hand on Alaric’s hip, which seemed to be one of the few undamaged parts of his body. Gave a gentle squeeze.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Was about to call 911 when he realised there was nowhere near enough time. Called Bonnie instead.

She was sleeping, but she answered. Living in Mystic Falls, you learned to answer the phone by the third ring, no matter what time of the day or night.

“Hello?”

Damon didn’t greet her. Just shouted. “You were doing all that research on the eternity rings. Last year. Remember?”

She was silent. “Who is this? What time is it?”

“Jesus fuck, Bonnie. It’s Damon. The rings.”

He could hear her rub the sleep from her eyes, sit up in bed. “What, Damon? Can this wait?”

“Ric’s dying.”

“What?”

“He got hit by a car. Not supernatural. What would happen if I killed him?” Damon moved his free hand back to Alaric’s face, rolling his chin, seeking some degree of awareness in his eyes. There was nothing.

Bonnie was alert by now, but panicked. “What?”

“If I kill him! Bonnie! Will. He. Get. Better?”

She paused a long moment. “I don’t know. From my research… If I had to guess I’d say no. The natural death would take him anyway.” Damon was about to throw the phone into the stratosphere when Bonnie finally collected herself properly. “Damon.”

“What. Say something useful or you’re dead next.”

“Get the ring off him. Feed him your blood. If it heals him in time that’s great. If it doesn’t, at least you can turn him.”

If Bonnie was here, he’d drain her dry, out of spite. “What? Don’t be fucking ridiculous. Get here now and heal him.” Knowing the damage was probably too severe for Bonnie anyway.

“Is there time?”

And that was the kicker; there really wasn’t time. Damon knelt at Alaric’s side, palpated his ribcage. It felt like a bag of meat and marbles, and touching it should have made Alaric scream, but instead his eyes just got a little heavier, flickered shut.

“Damon. If you love him, you’ll do it. Get the ring off him and feed him your blood.” Bonnie had a way about her that made people listen. Listen so hard to what she was telling them to do that they would barely hear what she actually _said_. “I’ll meet you at the boarding house.” She disconnected and Damon pocketed the phone.

Sick to his stomach, Damon took Alaric’s ring from his hand. Tore into his own wrist with his teeth and forced blood into Alaric’s mouth.

Alaric wouldn’t swallow. He wasn’t resisting; he was just almost gone. His eyes were closed, and far too still, but his heart was still beating, however slowly. Three times, Damon felt the skin on his wrist knit closed, and had to start again.

“Ric, you stubborn asshole, just _drink_ ,” he heard himself mutter.

Felt a rush of gratitude when he realised Alaric had actually started swallowing. Lifted Alaric in his arms and ran all the way to the boarding house. Faster than driving, any day.

Never even noticed he was praying.


	2. I know this can’t be wrong

Damon Salvatore had spent the better part of the last two years trying to convince Alaric Saltzman to let him turn him into a vampire. He'd tried just about everything. He'd reasoned with Alaric. He'd begged him. He hadn't drunk from a live human being - at least, not one who hadn't deserved it - except his stubborn best-friend-with-benefits in over a year, just to prove it was possible.

(It should be noted that he didn’t even drink from Alaric until they were both drenched in hormones and Alaric was literally begging him to.

Low on his hip, Alaric wore a scar; a series of scars, really, each a perfect replica of Damon’s mouth, ghosted one over the other. A brand. A claim. Sometimes, without even realising he was doing it, Alaric would brush his hand over the spot; when he was tired, or feeling insecure, or the shit was hitting the fan and everyone was in a justifiable state of pants-peeing terror, and it gave Damon a raging hard-on just knowing Alaric treasured the mark as much as Damon did.)

He'd tried more creative means as well. Tied Alaric to the bed one night and teased and tortured Alaric's greedy cock for over an hour, denying him a much-needed orgasm, and even that didn't work. Damon hadn’t been too upset at the time, though, since the experiment had been an awful lot of fun and had resulted in some extremely enthusiastic fucking.

Still Alaric said he hadn't decided. Or he wasn’t ready. Dumb human excuse after dumb human excuse.

“I could wait ’til you're asleep. Force you to drink and just break your neck, and you couldn't do a thing about it,” Damon had declared airily one night.

Alaric, sweat cooling on his skin, had snorted. “You wouldn't. You need it to be real.”

Unfortunately, this was true.

He'd threatened the delectable Mr Saltzman with compulsion, too, but this threat was even more empty. Alaric would remember as soon as he woke up and he'd leave, and Damon would never see him again.

This would be quite unacceptable. Damon had already decided he was going to be keeping Alaric. Forever. Because quite aside from the enthusiastic and frankly bendy sex, he'd become attached to the man.

*

Damon Salvatore had been in love exactly three times. First with the treacherous Katherine Pierce. Spent a hundred and fifty years plotting to spring her from a prison she had never even been condemned to. Learned then that she had only ever had eyes for his sainted brother Stefan.

For a while Damon had hoped he might one day see Katherine turn to beef jerky under his own stake, but the thought hadn't crossed his mind in ages, now.

The second time Damon had fallen in love it was with Elena Gilbert. His brother's girl, once again. At least she’d never lied. He’d always known he didn't have a shot.

Both times, the love had been all-consuming. Absolute. And unrequited.

The third time Damon Salvatore had fallen in love, it was with a dying history teacher. His fault, as these things so often were. He hadn't been paying attention. Had delighted in pointing out to the poor man that his dead wife had been delicious, near-gymnastic in her affections, and most significantly, that she was not dead - just uninterested in a mundane human life by his side.

Then he'd stabbed him.

Sitting on the couch with a glass of bourbon in his hand, listening to Alaric Saltzman breathe his last, wet, ragged breaths, Damon had suddenly felt his useless heart turn over in his chest. Alaric was brave. Suicidally reckless and brave. Loyal (something Damon had barely seen since he was human, and even then it was rare). He’d given up everything he’d ever worked for to pursue his wife’s killer.

Crouching at Alaric's side, watching the light leave his eyes, Damon had finally noticed that he was also beautiful, almost ridiculously so. Had been unable to prevent himself, once the man was dead, to run his fingers over the bones of his face, trying to commit the dips and curves to memory, to decide exactly what shade of grey those eyes were, to imagine what those lips would have felt like beneath his, if they were still warm and living.

“I assume you’ll take care of this?” he'd asked St Stefan, as he’d retreated to his room, wishing there was a way to desecrate his own flesh in a way that would last, to etch his self-loathing permanently on his skin.

And then Alaric had woken up. Killed vampires with him. Punched Damon in the face and graciously accepted his apologies by way of a blow job in the alley behind the Mystic Grill.

Damon Salvatore had attachment issues. He knew this well. He also knew that the third time he’d fallen in love, Alaric had fallen in love right back. Maybe he hadn’t fallen so quickly, and maybe he still wore an expression some days like he knew he must be insane, but Damon had no doubt he was loved.

Damon had never had this before. This equality. The sense of being wanted just as badly as he wants. Of being chased as eagerly as he's chasing. It might not be pretty – he and Alaric fought constantly, and with as much passion as they brought to their bed – but it was real, raw, and miraculous.

Damon’s favourite moments were always after a hunt. Team badass fighting side by side was the best imaginable foreplay. The most memorable sex of Damon's very long life was in a farmhouse a hundred miles from Mystic Falls, surrounded by the corpses of seven of Klaus's hybrids, who (with Klaus now dead) were servants only to their own considerable appetites. Alaric threw the seventh and final heart into the fireplace, bloody to his elbow, and then fucked Damon like it was their last night on earth.

*

It couldn't have been their last night on earth, because Alaric's eternity ring kept him alive. Great. What it couldn’t do was stop him from getting older. And he got older every stupid day, because he wouldn’t let Damon turn him. Their last night on earth would probably see Alaric grey and incontinent, because the stupid ring could not prevent the damnable passage of time and it was for this reason that Damon was still begging, still reasoning, still threatening and torturing. He wanted Alaric young and strong and enthusiastic _forever_.

Damon pretended once to examine something held tight between his thumb and forefinger. When he was sure Alaric was paying attention, he said “oh. This is yours. Want it back?”

Alaric squinted. “Do I want what back?”

“Grey pubic hair,” Damon said, flicking absolutely nothing at Alaric’s face.

And Alaric had the audacity to _laugh_.

Damon snapped a newspaper. Loudly. Said to Alaric, “there’s a fascinating article in here about preventing dementia. You should read it. Or is newsprint too small for you these days?”

“Dude, I’m thirty-six,” Alaric said, laughing again, unbuckling Damon’s belt.

He would not take it seriously.

*

The passage of time was definitely the biggest problem, but there were others.

Alaric wouldn’t let Damon tell anyone about them.

This was irritating on a number of levels. For one thing, if you were fortunate enough to be bedded by Damon Fucking Salvatore at least six nights a week, you should be so pleased with yourself that you want to get t-shirts printed up. You should want to take out full page advertisements in all the major dailies about just how good life is with Damon Fucking Salvatore kneeling between your thighs.

But Alaric was patently ridiculous about the secrecy.

*

For a while, Alaric had ‘dated’ Jenna Sommers, of all people, kissed her at the front door after every dinner-and-a-movie before texting Damon to meet him at the loft. Usually, Damon held out for about five minutes, pretending to sulk, before he rolled his eyes and relented.

Trying to elicit a bit of jealousy, Damon had dated Andie Starr (Action News).

“It’s not called Action News.”

“I just like saying it. C’mon.” Had Alaric up against the back of the front door and his hand down Alaric’s pants before Andie had reached the bottom step.

Andie was tasty, and compelled to remember Damon was the best lover she’d ever had, but Damon couldn’t work up the energy to actually have sex with her. Not now he knew what it felt like to wear a tight ring of muscle around his cock. Not now he knew what it felt like to be totally full, to feel the slap of hard muscle meeting hard muscle, to have Alaric’s huge hands all over him, to feel the bruising pressure of a kiss that is really meant for him.

To be treated like something other than a really memorable one night stand, or a placeholder for someone else.

Alaric had been philosophical about it all. Wiped a stray drop of Damon’s come off his lip with one hand as he reached for his bourbon glass. “What’s up with you and this news chick?”

“She’s got spunk, huh?” Damon tucked his dick back into his pants, gazed at Alaric from under lust-heavy eyelids.

“Just don’t kill her. Please.”

“If I did, who’d report her death?”

“Just don’t do it, okay? She’s friends with Jenna and it’s bad enough that I’m lying to her about everything else. I hate the lies. God, I gotta go. I gotta pick Jenna up. Don’t worry, I’ll show myself out.”

Furious, Damon had thrown a very expensive antique cut crystal glass close enough to Alaric’s head for him to feel the breeze it made just before it shattered against the door jamb.

“You hate the lies? Are you being the pot or the kettle this week? I know we’ve been taking turns but sometimes I lose track.”

Alaric had frowned, seemingly astonished. “I told you I want to stay quiet about this for now. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is I’m Damon Fucking Salvatore, and I’m a hundred and seventy years old, and I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about me. Except you. So you ditch the beard and I’ll ditch the blood bag and let’s go shout it from the rooftops.”

Alaric had left and Damon had sulked.

After that little episode, Damon had actually managed to stay away for a while, but then he had showed up at Alaric’s loft at two in the morning a few days later with a hard-on and a bottle of 20-Year-Old Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve and everything had been forgiven.

The only person who ever seemed to see through the ruse of Alaric’s little romance with Jenna was Elijah, who had been both clearly interested in Alaric, and unrepentant in his attempts to elicit a response from him. Still, Damon had kept the upper hand; the second and last time Alaric had mentioned Elijah had great hair, Damon had fucked him right into the mattress. It left enough of an impression that when Alaric stuck Elijah with a dagger just a few hours later, he’d done it with an almost clinical detachment.

*

Another reason this ridiculous cone of silence was irritating was that Elena kept sniffing around when she was feeling ignored, or St Stefan was off on a blood-bender, and while Damon was flattered, he was frankly uninterested. Compounding his irritation was the fact that Alaric had the audacity to get jealous of the littlest doppelganger.

“I’m keeping her safe for my brother, Ric,” he’d said once, while Stefan was running around the countryside like a good little pet, killing on Klaus’ demand. “Don’t give me this shit.”

“Keeping her safe? Or keeping her warm?”

That little scene had ended with Alaric getting his neck snapped. For the last time. Damon would never do it again. The first time he’d killed Alaric he stayed dead for two hours. When Jules and the rabid band of werepups did it, it lasted three.

But after that particular episode, Damon Salvatore had sat by Alaric Saltzman’s side for five panicked hours waiting for him to wake up, debating turning him, wondering if Alaric would ever forgive him if he did it.

By the time Alaric woke up, it had been seven hours, from the moment his neck snapped to the moment he woke up. Alaric had called him a dick, left the boarding house in a blind fury.

Damon had been so relieved he didn’t even care. Much. Of course, it led to the longest period of celibacy Damon had ever endured. Like, three whole weeks. Alaric tolerated his presence when he had to but wouldn’t so much as smile at him.

They’d made up, at last, and when he lay in Ric’s arms that night, Damon had finally broached the subject.

“You, me, and eternity, Ric. Think about it. It wouldn’t suck.”

Damon couldn’t remember now what Alaric had said, that first time, but he’d felt the shifting tension in his arms, and the answer certainly hadn’t been ‘no’.

*

But that was a long time ago, now. A lot had happened since. Klaus was dead. Stefan was all repenty, back on the bunny blood and playing the dedicated boyfriend again. He and Elena were going to college in Richmond. There was the tedium of Alaric continuing to teach history to a bunch of slack-jawed teenagers. There was the occasional thrilling sojourn to parts unknown to kill slavering hybrids or territorially ambitious vampires. And there was plenty of time for cajoling, convincing and canoodling.

So Damon Salvatore had spent the better part of the last two years trying to convince Alaric Saltzman to let him turn him into a vampire. They’d talked about it. They’d fought about it. Damon had whispered sweet everythings in Alaric’s ear about enhanced senses and endless sexual stamina as he stroked his prostate to quivering orgasm.

All they’d agreed on so far is that it wasn’t a definite ‘no’, that Damon had to be patient, and that if he ever turned Alaric against his will, he’d never see him again, much less touch him.

Damon Salvatore hadn’t been a particularly patient human and he wasn’t a particularly patient vampire, but he’d been holding out, keeping his end of the bargain, drinking blood bags. Keeping their secret. Being a good boyfriend.

And now it was all going to go to shit.

**

Damon lay Alaric in front of the hearth in the library. Wanted him warm, for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate. Opened his own wrist over and over. Alaric remained unconscious, but his body occasionally recognised the blood as medicine, and then he’d gulp frantically for a few moments.


	3. Watch the sun come up

Bonnie packed a bag. Emily’s grimoire, her grandmother’s, her own. Packed spell ingredients, a mortar and pestle. A selection of lapis lazuli jewellery she’d been collecting over the last couple of years. Rings and pendants. She figured a ring would be best, but had no idea if any of the rings she’d found would fit Alaric’s big hands. Lapis lazuli wasn’t exactly a common choice for jewellers.

She cast a longing look at her bed, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, hoisted the bag on her shoulder, and slipped out of the house.

As Bonnie started her car, she thought about what she was attempting, and tried to decide if it was actually the right thing to do. On the one hand, the thought of letting Alaric die was too horrible for words. Alaric was good. Kind. He’d been punching above his weight to keep the human population of Mystic Falls safe for years.

Hell, he’d even managed to turn Damon Salvatore into a decent person. Sort of.

On the other hand, no matter how well she’d prepared for the alternative, Bonnie didn’t want any more of her friends to become vampires. Didn’t want any more vampires, full stop.

“I should have lied,” she said aloud, surprising herself. Alaric might hate them both for making this decision for him; maybe he’d have preferred to die human.

Still, the choice wasn’t actually made yet. Alaric might choose not to drink, might let himself die transitioning. At least this way he’d get a chance to say goodbye.

It took Bonnie twenty minutes to get to the boarding house. She wasn’t sure what to expect. The house blazing with lights and chaos and Stefan and Elena hovering around uselessly. Silence, and Damon grieving in the library. Silence, and Damon _rejoicing_ in the library. It could go any way.

The door was unlocked. Bonnie hoisted the heavy bag again, swinging the door open.

Silence. That was something, at least. And then she heard Elena’s voice from the top of the stairs.

“Bonnie?” Elena’s voice was heavy with sleep, and her hair was starting to curl. “What are you doing here?”

Bonnie groaned. This would be easier without Elena and Stefan sticking their noses in, but Stefan had probably heard her coming from the moment she’d parked her car. Stupid vampire senses.

“Damon needs my help,” she said, determined. “You should go back to bed.”

“What’s happened?” Stefan asked from the shadows.

There was no point in lying. Bonnie sighed. “Ric’s hurt. It’s okay. They don’t need you guys. Just go back to bed.”

Too late. Elena was already coming down the stairs. “No, Bonnie. Alaric’s our -”

Bonnie turned on her heels. “I’m serious, Elena. They don’t need you. Don’t make this any harder. Not everything is about you.”

The comment met its mark. Elena flinched.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that every time you barge into the middle of something you don’t need to be a part of, it makes things harder on everyone else. Okay? Can you just do what you’ve been asked to? Just once? They’ll talk to you guys tomorrow.”

Elena’s expression was hurt, and Bonnie felt bad for a moment. “Will you just tell me what happened?”

Bonnie paused, shifted her weight. The strap of the bag was cutting into her shoulder. Emily’s grimoire alone weighed about twenty pounds, and seemed to be getting heavier by the second. “If I tell you, do you promise to keep out of it?”

“I promise.”

“Ric’s transitioning.”

Elena rushed forward and Bonnie took a step to intercept her. “I mean it, Elena. Stay. Away.”

Stefan was there in a flash, a hand on Elena’s shoulder. “She’s right. This is pretty private. Let’s just go.”

“Then why does Bonnie get to be a part of it?”

In some ways, Elena was so young.

“The fact that I have a bag of grimoires and spell ingredients doesn’t give you a hint? Go away, Elena. Give them some space. They’ll talk to you when they’re ready.”

Leaving Elena torn between doing what she was told and making an ass of herself, Bonnie made her way to the library. She swung the door open slowly, unsure of what she would find. The fireplace was lit, and so were a few candles; the room had a funereal feel to it.

Appropriate.

She let the door close behind her. “Damon?” she whispered.

He was sitting on the floor by Alaric’s prone form. “Thanks for that,” he said numbly. “Don’t think I could have coped with them.”

“No problem.” Bonnie crouched at Alaric’s feet, unwilling to touch him. “Any chance he’s going to just heal?”

“He died five minutes ago.”

There wasn’t a scrap of emotion in Damon’s voice, but his eyes were haunted.

Bonnie let her eyes drift closed, and sent Alaric a silent farewell. His human life was over. “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. She was touched to see Damon had washed Alaric’s face, cleared blood away from his nose and mouth.

Damon thumbed the spot between his eyebrows. “You don’t need to be here for this either. You should go.”

Bonnie shook her head. “Me, you’re stuck with. If he does this, he’s doing it on my terms.” She unpacked her bag, while Damon tried to process what she’d said.

“What do you mean, _your_ terms?”

In the mortar, Bonnie placed vervain, rosemary, the wings of a lacewing butterfly, an abandoned cocoon. Blended them up with the pestle. Added valerian and dried white rose petals.

This spell had taken months to write, painstaking research Bonnie had shared only with her cousin Lucy. For Lucy, it was an academic exercise. For Bonnie, who lived in fear that one day Elena would decide to turn, it had been serious.

She’d never imagined she’d be using it on Alaric.

The rosemary, with its sweet scent, was there so Alaric would remember being human. The wings and cocoon symbolised the transformation. The valerian for calm, for a steady temperament – something Alaric, who could be fiery, would need in order to keep his cool once he’d transitioned. Dried white rose petals meant the bearer would rather die than act against their principles.

The vervain, of course, ensured the mixture could penetrate a vampire’s skin and take root.

A witch’s blood was necessary for the magic to work. Bonnie busied herself with blending the dry ingredients. Wasn’t looking forward to cutting herself. Bonnie had a series of scars on her left arm which people sometimes noticed, and made some pretty big assumptions about.

After a long while, Bonnie spoke. “How long will it take?” Damon looked confused. “Until he wakes up.”

“Couple of hours. Maybe more, since he’s still healing.” He cocked his chin sharply. “I’m in a bad mood. So tell me what you’re doing, or I’ll snap your neck just for the momentary distraction.”

Bonnie snorted derisively. “You want a distraction? I’ll give you an aneurysm. Keep them coming until he comes round.”

Damon actually seemed to consider this. “You’re not scared of me at all, anymore, are you?” he mused.

“Nope.” Bonnie kept grinding the ingredients, but started to mutter softly, words she’d written herself when she invented this spell. Dropped a lit match into the mixture and let it burn everything to ash.

Damon reached for Alaric’s hand, tangled his slender fingers into Ric’s. “How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

Damon scoffed. “Come on. You said ‘if you love him, you’ll do it.’ Which tells me our little secret isn’t such a secret.”

Bonnie shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. Virtually everyone we know is completely self-absorbed. I think I’m the only one who knows. Actually,” she said, on reflection, “I _know_ I’m the only one, because otherwise, it would have been gossip. At least for a while.” She flicked through Emily’s grimoire, opened it to a page full of symbols. Opened her own to find the page she needed. Used a hair clip to hold the book open. “Though I don’t know why it’s such a secret. What’s it been, two years? Longer?”

Damon shook his head, disbelieving. “Thanks for keeping your mouth shut.”

“Don’t mention it,” she answered. “I mean, really, don’t mention it. This’ll come out, eventually, and if Elena and Caroline find out I’ve known for years, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Bonnie took her athame from her bag. Held it over her arm. Hesitated. “If you bite me, I’ll light you up like a roman candle,” she warned.

Damon shrugged. “I’m not Stefan, Bonnie. I don’t snap at the smell of blood. I could suck a pint out of this shirt.”

Damon’s shirt was black, but Bonnie could tell it was heavy with drying blood. She gave him a hard look. “Fine.” She cut into her arm, let the blood drip into the mortar, muttering the second part of the incantation.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing,” Damon growled.

Bonnie ignored him while she finished the incantation. She turned another page, looking satisfied. “If he wants to do this – and I swear to god, if you force him to, Damon, I’ll -”

“No,” Damon cut in. “I promised him it was up to him. Bad enough that I… He’ll probably leave me just on principle.” He held Bonnie’s gaze. “I wouldn’t.”

Bonnie believed it. The intensity of his look was downright spooky. “Good,” she said, closing the cut on her arm with a bandaid. “Anyway. He won’t have a switch.”

Damon spluttered. “What?”

“I’m anchoring him to his humanity.”

“You can’t do that. That’s like neutering a dog. Except meaner.” Damon frowned, widened and narrowed his eyes like compulsion was his first instinct. “I thought you were all about the free will here?”

“Not quite. I’m all for free will when it doesn’t result in dead humans. You’re both on a steady blood-bag diet, as far as I’m concerned. And steer clear of anything marked AB, because that shit is _rare_.”

“But -”

“He’s going to need a ring, Damon. You want me to make him one? I’m doing this.” She added a thin oil to the mixture and blended it one last time. The mixture took on an odd sheen, and Bonnie smiled. It was going to work.

“Bonnie, stop.”

“No more rippers, Damon.” She took a pair of scissors and started to cut Alaric’s shirt open. Low on Alaric’s left hip, she found the scar, soft white rings ghosted one over the other. Shook her head.

“Ric couldn’t possibly be a ripper.” Damon had the gall to sound indignant, and was trying to pretend Bonnie hadn’t found what she’d found.

“When did Ric stop drinking vervain?”

Damon froze. “None of your business, Judgy.” Bonnie thought it was funny that he thought the nickname would get to her. That it had _ever_ gotten to her. She cocked an eyebrow, and Damon narrowed his eyes. “As soon as he knew I’d never compel him.”

This sounded fair. Bonnie nodded. “When Stefan was alive, could you have imagined him blacking out on blood and tearing someone’s head off?”

Damon spluttered again, shaking his head. “This is different. Ric’s a vampire hunter, for fuck’s sake.”

“So he already knows how to kill. Awesome.” Bonnie paused, caught Damon’s chin on the pad of her index finger. Patronising, almost. “Two choices. You let me do this, and then when the sun comes up I make him a day ring. Or I leave here now and he _never_ gets one. There are not a lot of Bennett witches left, Damon, and Lucy would see you burned to a crisp before she ever did something for you.” Her tone softened and she withdrew her hand. “Come on, Damon. You know Ric better than anyone. Can you imagine him even _wanting_ to flip the switch?”

Damon held Bonnie’s eyes for a long time. Finally, he gave a sneer. Knew he’d been outmanoeuvred. “Fine. Do it.”

“Let go of his hand.” Reluctant, Damon did it, shuffling a couple of feet back and linking his hands over his knees.

“If he comes back wrong…”

“Of course he’ll come back wrong. Vampires are wrong, Damon. I just want him to be less wrong than you are. Now, do you think you can shut up for a few minutes?”

Without waiting for an answer, Bonnie closed her eyes and started the last part of the incantation. The candles around the room flickered, their flames elongating. The fire in the fireplace burned hotter, the smell of pine momentarily holding its own again the much stronger smell of blood.

Bonnie chanted for some time, and then let her eyes open again. She put her thumb into the mixture and placed the first line of the symbol on Alaric’s chest. Beneath the skin, which was still startlingly warm, she could feel the damage to his ribcage, the disturbing sensation of bones trying to knit, twitching and shuddering like a nest of insects in his chest. That this could occur when Alaric didn’t even have a pulse was unsettling, to say the least.

Eight lines made up the symbol, eight lines made up the final incantation. Under the mixture of ash, blood, and oil, Bonnie knew the vervain was burning Alaric’s flesh just slightly. It would be gone by the time he woke up.

“There,” she said softly.

“Did it work?” Damon sounded almost hopeful. He always seemed to expect fireworks or something after a spell, and when no fireworks eventuated, he seemed convinced nothing witchy had really happened.

“Sorry to disappoint you. It worked.” As if to agree with her, the candles drew back their flames.

Bonnie was exhausted. A new spell was always tiring, and she’d barely had any sleep. She pulled the small bag of jewellery out of her bag and started trying rings on Alaric’s fingers. “This one fits his index finger,” she said, passing a chunky one to Damon. “This one fits his ring finger. Hey! You could go to Vermont and get married!” She gave him a mock-delighted grin.

“That’s the last time you get to make a joke about that.” There was no real threat in Damon’s tone.

“I’d like to see you try to stop me. Besides, I think you’d look pretty in white. Ric has the chest hair, he’s clearly the dude.” Bonnie continued to try ring after ring. None fit. “That’s it for the rings. There are a few pendants, but I can’t really see Ric in a necklace. Though this one would look good on a strip of leather…” She cocked her head, considering.

Damon took the jewellery from her. “You can’t re-spell his eternity ring?”

“It’s onyx. Wouldn’t work.”

“Will he still be able to wear it?”

“If he’s a selfish son of a bitch, sure. My guess is that he can come up with a human he’d rather see wearing it.” Unbidden, Matt’s gentle features and blue eyes shot into Bonnie’s thoughts. She sighed.

“Two rings, and a bunch of pendants. He can pick, if he decides to go through with the transition. I need to have sunlight to do the spell, so it can wait until he decides.” Bonnie sat for a moment. It was strange to watch the tiny movements under Alaric’s chest that showed he was still healing, even as there was nothing to indicate breathing.

Damon twitched violently, looking pained. Bonnie waited for him to speak. He didn’t. “What?” she finally asked.

“Do you think he’ll do it?”

Bonnie sighed. “I don’t know, Damon. Yours is the best guess.” She yawned. “I need to get some sleep.”

Damon ignored this last. “I want him to. We’ve been talking about this for two years.” Bonnie said nothing, waiting to hear if there was more, but apparently Damon had said all he was going to on the subject. She yawned again.

Finally, he nodded sharply. “Take my room. I’m not going anywhere.”

Bonnie nodded and repacked her bag. “Damon?”

“Hmm?” Damon didn’t even look up; only had eyes for his dead lover.

“We all know you’re a mass murderer, and we manage to get past that. Why are you two a secret? What do _you_ care what people think?”

Damon shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Ric that, when he wakes up.”

That was a surprise, that it was Alaric’s choice. Bound to be a story there, but Bonnie wasn’t going to ask, and it sounded like Damon wasn’t sure what story was either.

In that moment, Damon looked oddly young and fragile.

Bonnie hoisted the bag back onto her shoulder. “Text me when you’re ready for me,” she said, and made her way to the door.

“Sabrina?”

Something in Damon’s tone told Bonnie he wasn’t teasing; just shooting for normal. She paused.

“You have no earthly reason to help me.” He held her gaze in his slate-silver eyes.

Bonnie waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she sighed. “I’m helping Alaric.”

“You’re helping us both. Whatever. Take the ‘thank you’, would you?” Damon snarked.

Bonnie rolled her eyes. “You didn’t thank me!”

“It was implied. Go away. I’ll text you if. Or when.”

Bonnie rolled her eyes and opened the door, let it click softly behind her, and made her way to Damon’s room. As she passed Stefan’s door, it opened a crack.

“Bonnie?” Elena sounded apologetic.

“They’re okay.” Bonnie smiled in a way she hoped was reassuring.

“Can we do anything?”

“We can give them their space. Ric will wake up in another hour or so and then he’s going to have a choice to make. Until they come out of that library, we’re leaving them alone.” Bonnie took Elena’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “Sorry about before.”

Elena sighed. “No, you were right. Goodnight, Bonnie,” she said, and closed the door.

Stripping to her t-shirt and underwear, Bonnie asked herself again if she’d ever have to use the spell on her best friend. Hoped that at least, if it came to it, she’d get the chance to. Under the most expensive bedding she’d ever touched, Bonnie slept the sleep of the dead.


	4. The edge of the deep green sea

Alaric woke with a violent shudder, grabbing at his face. “Ungh,” he groaned. “I’m never gonna get used to that.”

Damon leaned across him, put a hand on his hip, gave a gentle squeeze. “Would you want to?”

“Probably not.” He rubbed his eyes, tried to sit up.

“Relax,” Damon said. “Your ribcage is still a bit of a mess.”

Alaric was surprised. “Really?” He probed his side gently and was surprised at just how painful it was. He usually woke up, well, perfect. “I feel like shit,” he admitted. Damon was frowning, seemed about to say something. “What? You look like someone shot your puppy.” Alaric let his eyes close again.

He felt Damon stand and move towards the bar. “You want a drink?” he asked, but started to pour before Alaric answered.

Alaric noticed suddenly that he was shirtless. “You cut my shirt off?” He laughed, and it hurt. “S’pose I should be glad I woke up wearing pants.”

Damon came back, kneeled at his side again. “Like I’d violate you when you were all helpless,” he smirked. He helped Alaric into a sitting position. Passed him the glass.

“You do it when I’m asleep,” Alaric answered, grinning wryly. Taking a sip of the amber liquid. “Wow. You broke out the good stuff. What’s the occasion?”

Damon took Alaric’s face in both hands and kissed him. Not gently. Nothing gentle about it. Nudged his mouth open and twisted their tongues together like the world was about to end. Alaric grinned against his mouth, tangled his fingers into Damon’s hair.

After a minute, Alaric pulled away. “I take it I’ve been dead for a while?” Teasing.

Damon tugged gently at the sparse hair on Alaric’s chest. “Couple of hours.” Leaned in again for another kiss, soft, the closest thing to chaste Damon Salvatore could manage.

Which, in fairness, was not that chaste.

Alaric was starting to worry, and he felt oddly vulnerable, sitting on the ground with his shirt flapping open. Damon couldn’t read his mind, but they were so attuned to each other after nearly three years that is was as good as. Damon helped him to his feet, led him to the couch. Handed him another t-shirt. As he stripped off the rags of the old one, wincing, Alaric noticed the sigil on his chest.

“Um. Damon?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow. “What is this?”

Damon shrugged, a failed attempt to look nonchalant. “I was bored. Thought I’d do some sketching.”

Alaric pulled the clean t-shirt over his head. “What aren’t you telling me?” As he said it, Alaric noticed a throbbing ache in his jaw, in his gums. Massaged over the hinge of his jaw with thumb and forefinger and took another mouthful of whisky. Damon remained standing, eyebrows knitted in the middle. Reached for another glass on the sideboard and passed it to him.

It was blood.

Alaric’s sight grew foggy. Partly with want, partly with panic. Shaking like a kicked dog, he crossed his arms over his bruised chest. Partly trying to hold himself together. Partly to give his hands something to do. So he wouldn’t just grab the glass and drink it.

He couldn’t take his eyes off it.

“What did you do?”

Said it so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d said it out loud at all.

Damon withdrew the glass. “I had no choice. You were dying.”

Alaric flexed his hand, noticing for the first time that he wasn’t wearing his ring. “What, I was dying, and my ring fell off?” Felt rage uncoil in his chest like a snake.

Damon shook his head. “You don’t remember what happened?”

Alaric closed his eyes and cast his mind back. “We were heading back to the truck, and…”

“The vampires’ little love slave got his revenge on, ran us down with his car. He might have been supernaturally stupid, but he was _human_. The ring wasn’t going to work.” Unbelievable. Damon had broken his promise and still had the audacity to sound pissy.

“You don’t know that.” Alaric stood up, wincing, though he noticed the pain in his side was already starting to subside. Knew if he looked, he’d soon see the bruises fading to green, to nothing at all.

“You think I was gonna take that risk?” Damon narrowed his eyes, looking irritated. “I called Bonnie. She said even if I killed you and let the ring work its magic, the natural death would probably take you anyway.”

“Probably? You didn’t know for sure.”

“We could ask Elena’s dead dad. If he wasn’t, you know, _dead_. Ring didn’t help him much, did it?” Damon rolled his eyes, but it was false bravado.

“Nice, Damon.” Alaric paced, trying to ignore the smell of the blood, which was already eclipsing every other smell in the room.

And there were a _lot_ of smells in the room. Old books. Older books (he could smell the difference between the ones that had always been here in this house and the ones that had been kept for a while somewhere near the sea). Two different kinds of wood in the fire, and something like moss. The bourbon in his glass, which he threw back, realising that it was the same thing they usually drank; just made more complex by the addition of vampire senses.

Alaric was exhausted. It was all totally overwhelming, and he stumbled.

Damon caught him. Of course, Damon caught him. Wrapped his arms, like narrow steel bands, around Alaric’s body, ground his face into his shoulder. Alaric pushed him away, shaking his head. Fighting desire and trying to hold onto his rage.

“You promised me it was my choice, Damon.” Couldn’t even look him in the eyes.

“You think I did this lightly? You’ve told me a hundred times if I turned you against your will I’d never see you again. You think I just blithely took that risk?”

“I think you do whatever you want to do, Damon.”

“I didn’t have choice. You still do, Ric.”

Alaric collapsed back onto the couch, crossed his arms again, elbows resting on his thighs. Noticed how much blood had dried in the fabric of his jeans. Noticed he was breathing hard and wondered if it was habit or something else that drove his lungs now.

Damon took a hesitant step forward, which was unsettling, because Damon was never hesitant. Another step. Crouched in front of the couch and put his hands on Alaric’s thighs.

“It’s still your choice,” he repeated. “I could have held you down and poured blood down your throat the second you woke up. I didn’t. I’m doing my best here, Ric.” About as gently as Alaric had ever heard him say anything, but there was a taste of something else; desperation, maybe.

“Is that my blood?” Alaric asked, referring to the cloying, sweet stench of Damon’s shirt.

Damon nodded. Moved his hands to the sides of Alaric’s neck, searched his eyes for any sign of forgiveness. “Mostly. You lost a lot of it. Your ribs were crushed. You were bleeding into your lungs. Your heart was slowing down by the time I got to you and that was less than thirty seconds.” He tilted Alaric’s head up, pressed their mouths together a moment. “I called Bonnie. She made the very astute observation that if I loved you, I’d do anything to keep you here. So I did. We thought there might be time for my blood to heal you. There wasn’t.”

Alaric snapped his head again. “You told _Bonnie_ about us?”

Damon shook his head. “She’s known for years, apparently. And she doesn’t care. Asked me why we bothered hiding it.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That she’d have to ask you.”

Alaric shook his head. “You honestly don’t know?”

“I’ve asked you five hundred times and you’ve never told me. So no. I don’t know. I figure either you’re ashamed of yourself, or you’re ashamed of me.” Damon shrugged, but couldn’t hide the hurt look he wore.

Alaric blinked slowly. “What?”

Damon looked away. “What was I supposed to think?”

Alaric cupped Damon’s neck with one meaty hand. “I’m not ashamed of you. And I’m not ashamed of myself.” Leaned so their foreheads met. “Nothing like that.”

“Nice to know.” Damon waited. “Since time is of the essence, maybe you want to tell me now? So we can fight about it, and I can convince you you’re being an idiot, and you can drain that glass, and we can get on with the rest of our eternal lives?” As he said this, Damon clambered onto the couch, straddling Alaric’s legs.

“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that?” Alaric murmured, as Damon nuzzled into his neck.

“Yes,” Damon answered, “but that seems like a weird reason to be all cagey.” Placed a line of wet kisses across Alaric’s collarbones, eliciting a moan. Transferred his mouth to Alaric’s ear. “It feels different, doesn’t it?” he whispered. “If you transition, it’ll be even better.”

Alaric sighed, resting against the back of the couch. Damon shifted him easily onto his back, taking advantage of the full length of the couch, ground their hips together, relishing the friction. Alaric was suddenly hard, and Damon made no effort to conceal his smirk. “So?” he asked again, brushing his lips back and forth over Alaric’s. Alaric hesitated, ran a hand through Damon’s hair.

He was exhausted. Buzzing. Nerve endings on fire, crackling like electricity on the line. He knew his body was singing for blood, needed it. The ache in his jaw and gums was getting steadily worse. He wondered how long he had to decide, let his eyes flutter closed as Damon ran those talented fingers over his chest.

He wondered how long it would be before his skin was as cool as Damon’s. Wondered if feeding from his lover would feel as good as being fed from did.

“Ric? You had a Maury moment coming on, remember? ‘Why I won’t tell anyone about my hot vampire boyfriend’.” As he said it, Damon reached for the bulge in Alaric’s pants, ground the heel of his hand against it, making Alaric moan into his mouth.

Alaric shook his head, trying to focus despite being messy and weak with lust. Took Damon’s bottom lip in his mouth and arched into his body. “You’ll leave,” he said, resigned. “I’ve always known that. Whether I turn or not. Five years, ten years, whatever. You’ll leave.”

Damon reeled back. “What?”

Alaric nodded. “If everyone knows, then when you leave, everyone’ll know what I’ve lost. I couldn’t stand it. Not again.”

Incredibly, Damon’s erection was starting to subside. He looked stricken. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” he said. “Are you serious?” He sat back, still straddling Alaric’s hips, breathing hard.

“Why do you breathe?” Alaric asked. Genuinely wondering. He had so many questions. Couldn’t think why he’d never asked them before, all the times they’ve argued about this.

Damon shook his head. “Doesn’t matter right now. Are you _serious_?”

Alaric shrugged. “It is what it is.”

Damon actually looked angry. “Three years, Ric. Have I ever given you any reason to think I was going anywhere?”

“What’s three years to a vampire?”

“The longest I’ve _ever_ been monogamous, for one thing.” Damon ran a hand through his hair, eyes wide. “Does that mean anything to you at all?” He climbed off the couch, poured himself another drink. Stood stooped before the fire, looking wretched.

Alaric rubbed his eyes, but stayed lying as he was. Unsure whether he wanted Damon to come back or not.

“I’ve been trying to convince you to do this for two years, Ric. You think I did that lightly?”

Alaric chuckled mirthlessly. “Shall we ask Vicky Donovan?”

Damon whirled on him. “That was a dick move. You honestly think I haven’t changed at all since then?” He shook his head. “You know, while I was sitting here, feeding you my blood, waiting to see whether you were going to die or not, I was thinking about all the reasons this was my fault. Shouldn’t have been there in the first place, check. That’s me in all my charming arrogance, spoiling for a fight because it makes for great foreplay.” Damon shook his head, lips twisted in a rictus of regret. “Should have been paying attention to the car coming up behind us, check. So I was horny and distracted. Sue me.” He shrugged.

“But the really dumb thing? I should have compelled that idiot to leave Virginia. Two years ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated. But tonight I _told_ him to leave. You know why I didn’t compel him?” Cocked his head at Alaric. “Ric. Do you know why?”

Alaric took a deep breath, surprised again at the peace it brought him. “Because I hate when you do that.”

Damon touched a finger to the side of his nose, and then pointed it at Alaric. “Give the man a cigar. Yes. I haven’t compelled anyone outside of a blood bank for over a year and a half, because _you_ hate it. Don’t act like you think I’m still the guy who turned Vicky Donovan.”

Alaric thought for a long time. “This is so fucked up,” he finally said, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “I’m so tired.”

Damon returned to the couch. “You’re not _tired_. You’re _hungry_ ,” he said, gentle and stern.

Hungry. It meant something new, now, and with a jolt, Alaric sat up. “What if I turn out like Stefan or Isobel?” Voice panicked.

Damon shook his head. “Can’t happen,” he said, Sitting beside Alaric, feet drawn up beneath him. Pressed his hand over the sigil on Alaric’s chest. “The little witch anchored you to your humanity.”

“What does that mean?”

“No switch. You can’t turn it off.”

“That’s good, right?” Alaric closed his hand over Damon’s wrist.

“Depends.” Damon shrugged. “When Bambi’s mom died, did you laugh, or cry?”

“What?”

“Ultimate sociopath test. Totally approved by three out of ten psychiatrists.” Damon sighed. “You can’t go on a murderous rampage now any more than you could have yesterday afternoon. Not without the guilt of it driving you to stake yourself.” He shrugged. “Seemed kind of mean to me, but she said if I didn’t let her do it, she wouldn’t make you a ring.”

Alaric thought about this. It sounded better than the alternative.

The smell of blood in the glass on the sideboard was making Alaric salivate. Damon’s hand was still on his chest.

“Ric,” he said softly. “I’m not going anywhere. In case you hadn’t noticed, I can be kind of obsessive. You’d be lucky to get away from me.” He let his hand drift to Alaric’s shoulder, squeezing, exploring, and then to his neck, rubbing his thumb over Alaric’s aching jaw. Leaned in for a kiss.

Alaric let his mouth open, drew Damon’s tongue inside. Tasted bourbon and fear. Aware, again, of how much more his senses were telling him. Felt himself moan against Damon’s mouth. “Let’s go up to your room.”

“Bonnie’s sleeping in there.”

Alaric gave a wry grin. “That’s just weird.”

Damon pulled away, gave Alaric a hard look. “She’s staying to see whether we need her to make a ring or not.”

Alaric was silent a long time, Damon watching his expression. “How long do I have? To decide?”

Damon shook his head, eyes haunted again. “How long do you have? Seriously? How long do you _need_? You drink, or you’re dead in a few hours.” Damon shook his head.

“It’s what _you_ wanted,” Alaric said, quietly.

“I thought Katherine was dead. Which meant I had nothing to live for. Nothing that made it worth being a monster, anyway.” Damon scowled. “And you’re going all pussy on me because you think I might break up with you one day? Puh-lease.” Ran desperate hands through his hair. “You’ve never said ‘no’. You were thinking about it. Could you really stop now? Let yourself die? I’ll tell you right now, I won’t watch that.” He balled Alaric’s shirt in his hand. “If you die, you die alone.”

Alaric wrapped his arms around Damon. “I don’t need long. Just want… to be human a little longer.”

Damon let himself be held, though he was agitated. “You’re not human now. You’re a corpse. A talky, stupid, stubborn corpse. Ric… c’mon.”

Alaric was barely aware that Damon had slipped his embrace when he returned with the glass of blood. Offered it like a benediction.

Alaric held Damon’s eyes for a long time, trying to ignore the fresh ache in his gums.


	5. I wish I could just start

Alaric Saltzman had moved to Mystic Falls for one reason, and one reason only: to kill Damon Salvatore, who had taken his wife from him. It was only years later that he could admit to himself that he’d never thought Isobel was dead. Or at least not dead-dead. Her behaviour in the weeks before she’d disappeared had been so strange, giving Alaric the ugly ring, asking him to treat it like a treasure. Disappearing for days at a time without explanation, just hastily scrawled post-it notes to say she’d be back soon.

When he’d seen Damon feeding from her, he’d known in his heart it was because she’d asked him to. Isobel Flemming wasn’t cut out for mundane.

Alaric wasn’t stupid. He had prepared, practised. He’d taken out a couple dozen younger, weaker vampires in preparation for the final act. Came away from those early encounters with broken ribs and bite marks but he was determined. Never went anywhere without vervain.

Damon and Stefan were different from the other vampires Alaric had met; smart and organised, and hell-bent on protecting Elena Gilbert, trouble magnet. By the time he’d watched Damon and his brother kill a vampire at a school dance just to keep her safe Alaric had started to doubt he could even go through with his original plan.

Damon had stood in front of him in a darkened corridor, held his gaze with silver eyes.

“Is everything you’re telling me the truth?”

“Yes.” Deadpanned, the way he’d been rehearsing.

“Then forget we had this conversation.” Smug grin.

Even if he had forgotten the conversation – which he didn’t, thanks to the vervain in his hand – he’d never have been able to forget those eyes, or the faintly smoky smell that was distinctly Damon.

When Alaric had walked away, he’d been shaking, and not from fear.

The next few weeks had been a complicated hell. He and Damon had sparred a little, at first, trading quips, as Damon tried to solve the riddle of the history teacher who seemed to know too much. The odd flirtatiousness Damon brought to everything he did made him hard to hate, and although he tried not to, Alaric actually found himself enjoying it, sometimes.

He held on to the hate anyway. When Damon had taunted him in public, referring to Isobel as delicious, he’d decided anew that the vampire had to die.

The first time Damon Salvatore killed him, Alaric had thought well, if I have to die at the hands of a monster, at least it’s at the hands of a beautiful one.

*

When Damon came to him, dangling the promise of a lead on Isobel in front of him like a carnival prize, wanting help to save his sainted brother, Alaric had known from the outset that he was being lied to. Had gone anyway. This was when he first learned that battling side by side was foreplay of the highest order.

So, hours later, with Damon squirming beside him on a stool at the Mystic Grill, high from the win, he’d reached for the tough guy equivalent of pulling Damon’s pigtails; had punched him in the jaw, with everything he had.

Alaric was supremely satisfied to see Damon reel from the impact. Damon had collected himself, smiled brightly at the spectators, offered an airy “it happens.” Had looked decidedly off balance when he looked up and found Alaric still there, glaring at him.

“Are you coming?” Alaric had asked, and Damon’s answering smirk was enough to get him half hard.

Minutes later, in the alley behind the Grill, Alaric had found himself thrown against the wall under the pressure of a bruising kiss. He hadn’t kissed another man in years.

“Now that I’ve saved your life, are you going to apologise for killing me?” he’d murmured into Damon’s mouth.

“If you like,” Damon had purred, unbuckling Alaric’s belt, pulling his dick out of his pants. “Want me to do it on my knees?” He’d taken Alaric so deep in his throat that Alaric could barely stand. He’d anchored Damon to his crotch with one hand, using the other to hold himself up, clutching for dear life at the lip of a huge garbage bin. A hundred and seventy years of practise had done wonders for Damon’s technique, and there were bonus points for the fact he didn’t need to come up for air. Before Alaric knew it, he was coming harder than he could remember having done so in a very long time.

Team badass, indeed.

*

And then Isobel had shown up.

The day after he saw Isobel again for the first time, Alaric and Damon were in the park across from the Grill, while Elena waited to meet the monster who had given her up as a baby.

Damon was pacing, awkward; sorry he’d taken Alaric’s wife away from him, unable to think of anything he could do or say to take away the fresh hurt of seeing her again. Damon was a close talker, drove everyone crazy that way. But that day, he’d kept his distance, eyes flickering over Alaric and then away again.

They were still new, circling each other like caged animals, occasionally exploding in a mess of blood and come, and then backing away again, and Damon already knew when he had to give Alaric some space.

Alaric had been miserable and pissed off, in roughly equal measure. “You’re a dick and you kill people, but I still see something human in you,” he’d said. “With her, there was nothing.” Remembered how painful it had been to see Isobel emptied out and cruel.

Damon had been fishing around for something useful to say, and saw his opportunity now. “You can turn it off,” he’d started. “It’s like a button you can press. I mean Stefan’s different, he wants the whole human experience, wants to feel every episode of ‘How I met your mother’, so he shuts his feelings out. The problem is as a vampire your instinct is _not_ to feel.”

Damon had resumed pacing, while Alaric tried to make sense of it all, lost in his memories.

“Isobel chose the easier road. No guilt, no shame. No regret. I mean, come on, if you could turn it off, wouldn’t you?”

Alaric considered this. “You haven’t,” he’d said softly. Fought the urge to just lean forward and kiss Damon there in front of god and everyone.

“Of course I have, Ric. It’s why I’m so fun to be around.”

Liar.

Damon had proven Alaric’s own point hours later, fucking him with long, slow rolls of his hips, with a million soft kisses, and with such gentle consideration that Alaric had nearly punched him again, just to get a reaction.

*

It was less than a year later that Damon had first raised the idea of Alaric turning. _You and me and eternity, Ric. Think about it. It wouldn’t suck_.

Except it wouldn’t be eternity. Alaric knew Damon would leave. Katherine would breeze back into town and convince him to run off with her. Or Elena would finally wise up to what she’d been missing out on and switch Salvatores. Or it would turn out that there was another freaking Lockwood dreamboat out there. Something. Damon was a hundred-and-seventy-year-old ball of white-hot lust, and everyone who got near him wanted a piece. Alaric was a high school history teacher who drank too much and carried years of grief in the bags under his eyes.

Damon brought it up constantly. Made cracks about grey hair and incontinence diapers. Asked if Alaric wanted to wait until he qualified for a Senior’s discount before he turned. It became part of the ebb and flow of their very strange relationship. Alaric took it for what he knew it was; just another of the myriad ways in which Damon flirted with him.

It wasn’t as if Alaric hadn’t thought about turning. Inevitable. Once a person knew vampires were real, it was impossible for them _not_ to wonder what it would be like to watch the world change while they stayed the same. Alaric understood this better than most; his wife’s obsession had driven her to the arms of the man Alaric is now so horrifyingly attached to.

But Damon _would_ leave.

And surely ’tis better to have loved and lost, than to have ended up a monster alone and lonely in the world.

*

In a ridiculous and ultimately futile attempt to do something normal, Alaric had dated Jenna Sommers.

Damon had scoffed. “You want a beard? Stop shaving. Don’t pretend to date one,” he’d said, after Alaric and Jenna had gone out a couple of times.

“I’m not pretending,” Alaric had answered. It should be said, he’d been balls deep in Damon’s ass, riding him like a show pony at the time of this little heart-to-heart, and  Damon was in a state so sloppy and debauched he looked like he’d been injected with vervain. “I’m shooting for normal.” But the slap of firm flesh on flesh was so painfully right that he knew he was lost.

After a few months, Jenna had become impatient to advance the plot and Alaric had let himself be led to her bedroom. It was odd and slow and sweet but they had managed to peel each other’s clothes off, and Alaric had climbed on top of her, taken her in a gentle rhythm.

Seen Damon in his mind’s eye. And then he’d looked at Jenna’s sweet face, and softened to nothing.

Jenna had groaned. “You gotta talk to me, Ric,” she’d said. “Generally speaking, it doesn’t take me a lot of work to get a guy into bed. You’ve taken a _lot_ of work. A _lot_. And now where are you?”

Alaric had relaxed onto her gorgeous body. “I’m right here.”

“You are so _not_ right here.” Jenna had gently pushed him off her. “Is it Isobel?”

“No. My heart is free of her.” The words had sounded odd even to him, but he’d let it go, kissed Jenna again. She’d groaned again, and not in a good way.

“That is so not gonna fly,” she said. “Isobel was your wife, Ric, and maybe you -”

“I’minlovewithDamonSalvatore,” he’d blurted, and then too late, covered his mouth with his hand.

Jenna had been so utterly silent, Alaric could almost hear the recriminations. He’d started to sit up, preparing to dress and head home, when she’d finally shrieked.

With laughter.

“Oh, you poor idiot,” she’d said. “You, poor, poor idiot. Are you serious?”

Alaric had collapsed back onto the mattress, burning with humiliation.

“I know,” he’d said. “It’s pathetic.”

“I’ve dated Damon Salvatore,” Jenna had said, and Alaric had tensed. “Sorry. I don’t mean literally. Just, there are millions of Damon Salvatores in the world, and I’ve dated more than my share of them.” Alaric had grinned ruefully, glad the room was dark.

Only one Damon Salvatore. One-man walking porn reel, undead edition.

“We need ice cream,” Jenna had said. Alaric had snuck down to the kitchen, found a fresh tub of chunky monkey, had an awkward encounter with Elena on the way back. He and Jenna had eaten ice cream and cuddled.

Jenna had no hang-ups, outside of her alleged parenting, so they’d stayed nude and Alaric had curled against her, seeking comfort, grateful for her firm arm around his shoulder. “Any advice?” he’d asked.

Jenna had landed a kiss on the top of his head. “Yes. Run! Run while you still can.” Alaric had shaken his head.

“What if it’s too late for that?”

Jenna had sighed. “Guys like Damon don’t stay, Ric. Guard your heart.”

Alaric had already known this was true. Still, it hurt, hearing it from Jenna’s lips. Jenna, who was far more worldly in these matters than Alaric was. He’d had a string of fumbling encounters and short-term lovers, and then he was married. Jenna had unabashedly shagged her way through her teens and twenties. Knew what she liked and what she didn’t, when to run and when to fight.

Alaric wasn’t sure why, but he’d stayed, that night; they’d had sex, like good friends who sometimes go there, and he’d resisted the urge to ask Damon to meet him back at the loft afterwards.

He and Jenna remained friends, and never spoke about it again, but sometimes, at a party, or at the Grill, she’d notice Damon flirting with Elena, with a very confused-looking Matt Donovan, with Carol Lockwood, or, hell, making eyes at a particularly shiny pencil sharpener, and she’d flash Alaric a look that was not quite pitying, seeming to say without saying “See? Told you so.”

When Jenna had died, Alaric’s grief was real.

*

Guard your heart. Run. Guard your heart. Run.

Alaric had finally settled for something in the middle. Treated the relationship like the fleeting thing it had to be, would be. Bantered about turning, because he knew the joking and cajoling were what Damon used to make him feel… special. No doubt, Damon made the effort. Alaric knew Damon felt something for him. Might have even been love.

Either way, it wasn’t long-term. Even after three years, Alaric was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

This was why he wouldn’t let Damon tell everyone, shout it from the rooftops, as he put it. It was just too ridiculous. And painful. Let Damon lead him around like a pet for however long and then disappear, leaving him in a worse state than Isobel had.

Yet another stupid Founder’s Day event. Alaric had to make a speech about the contribution of Fell’s Church to the Civil War, had actually worn a suit. Damon had teased him mercilessly about it, but couldn’t keep his eyes – or his hands – to himself.

“It is a nice suit, Ric,” he’d breathed into Ric’s mouth as soon as they’d found somewhere to be alone for a moment. “Looks good on you.” He’d run appreciative hands over Alaric’s ass, smirking for America. “It’ll look even better in a pile on the floor by our bed.” He’d grabbed at Alaric’s belt.

Alaric loved it when Damon referred to ‘their’ bed like that.

Alaric had laughed, pushing Damon’s hands away, kissing his neck. “Stop. You’re not gonna make me come all over myself before I’ve even done this stupid speech.”

“Why not? It’d be funny.” Suddenly Damon’s smile had evaporated and he’d taken a step back. A moment later, Carol Lockwood had opened the door.

“There you are. Both.” She’d smiled brightly. “What are you doing?”

Damon had lied easily. “Ric’s a little nervous. I was… fluffing him.” Smiled widely, cocking an eyebrow, and Carol blushed.

“You’re the devil, Damon Salvatore. Ric, come and find me afterwards. I have someone I’d like you to meet.” Placed a well-manicured hand on Alaric’s arm, conspiratorial. “Friend of mine, recent divorcée, very attractive. I think you’ll find you have a lot in common.”

Alaric had drawn away, shaking his head. “Oh, no, Carol, that’s really not necessary -”

“Nonsense. I know for a fact that you haven’t seen anyone since Jenna Sommers died. What could it hurt?”

Alaric had met Damon’s darkening eyes, noted the firm set of his jaw. He could read that look like it was in one-hundred-point gothic all-caps: ‘This Shit Would Not Happen If You’d Let Us Go Public.’

“See you in a minute, Alaric,” Carol had said, flashing an expensive tennis bracelet as she breezed away.

A long moment of silence. Damon had scuffed at the carpet with the toe of his shoe, hands slung in his pockets, looking very young. “Damon…”

“Divorcée, huh? Sounds great. Have fun,” Damon had deadpanned.

“Don’t. C’mon.” Alaric had reached for Damon’s arm, disappointed the mood was broken, but Damon had stepped out of reach.

“This is why you’re keeping us a secret, right? In case something nice and normal comes along? So, bully for you. Hope she’s hot.” Damon had waltzed away.

In retaliation, Damon had flirted with everyone that crossed his path, ignoring Alaric until it was time to leave. Still, fighting didn’t suck when the making up was so sweet.

*

After a werewolf hunt that had gone south fast when Damon and Alaric had been blindsided by a small contingent of hybrids, they were back in Alaric’s loft. Both men were covered in blood, a deplorable amount of it their own, but they’d won. Damon had offered Alaric some blood to heal with but Alaric was determined this would never happen. So Damon was rolling his eyes and administering first aid.

“You know what sucks about this?” Damon had asked, cleaning blood away from a deep, nasty cut on Alaric’s back. Alaric lay face down on the bed, wincing from the pain and anticipating a whole lot more of it once Damon started stitching the bastard up.

“Other than the fact that it fuckin’ hurts?”

“Other than that.” Damon had poured antiseptic into the wound, eliciting a muffled shriek and a string of obscenities. “Right about now, we should be high from the fight, and I should be fucking you right into the floorboards, and instead, I’m probably not gonna get any tonight at all. That’s what sucks about it.”

Damon was surprisingly gentle with the sutures.

“I’m sorry my potentially lethal wounds are interfering with your sex life.”

“No, you’re not. If you were, you’d let me heal you, or better yet, turn you.” Damon had tied off the final suture. “Then my sex life would be awesome, on a permanent basis, and you’d be kicking about twenty times as much ass as you are now.”

Alaric had rolled onto his side. “I kick ass,” he’d protested. Damon had grinned, reaching for the bulge in Alaric’s pants.

“I never said you didn’t. I said you’d kick _more_ ass. If you weren’t so fucking fragile. Want me to check this for you? Feels swollen.”

“Damon,” Alaric had chided. “’m too banged up.”

“Which is my point,” Damon had said, lying alongside Alaric. Leaning in for a kiss, deepening it quickly. “If you’d died out there tonight I would have been fighting by myself for however long it took you to wake up. Kinda selfish, don’t you think?” Tugging gently at Alaric’s chest hair. “You wanna run around with a hero haircut and help the humans, maybe you should have some superpowers of your own.”

This gave Alaric pause.

Another tick in the _yes_ column.

*

Alaric Saltzman had moved to Mystic Falls for one reason, and one reason only: to kill Damon Salvatore, who had taken his wife from him. He’d stayed for very different reasons. Stayed for family, looking after Elena and Jeremy, who no longer needed him the way they once did. Stayed because Mystic Falls was dangerous and its people needed to be protected. Stayed for love, as strange as that love might have been.

And now he had a choice to make.

*

Alaric had never _wanted_ to be a vampire, the way some people did, once they learned the truth. The thought of killing, of _wanting_ to kill, to feed, made him nauseous. Anchored to his humanity, he figured that urge would still be there – he’d just feel a hell of a lot worse than your average vampire if he gave in to it.

But turning would serve several purposes. He’d be strong, strong enough to be of more use in a fight. Wouldn’t have to worry about getting hurt. Wouldn’t need to rely on a ring that could easily be removed by any vampire smart enough to cut Alaric’s hand off.

He’d be young and strong forever, and by Damon’s side for as long as Damon wanted him there.

And possibly the most pressing issue right now: he’d be alive. Sort of.

“Your heart beat is slowing,” Damon said. His expression was hard to interpret. Irritation, disappointment. Grief. His hand still rested on Alaric’s chest, over the symbol Bonnie had drawn there. “You’ve burned through a lot of your own blood healing from your injuries. It won’t be long now.” He cocked his head to the side.

Alaric said nothing, desperately processing the warring thoughts in his head, the uncomfortable physical sensations he could not ignore.

“Ric.” Alaric held his lover’s eyes a long moment. “I’m not going to beg.” He closed the distance between them in a moment, landing a sweet, slow kiss on Alaric’s mouth. Let his hand drift to the scar low on Alaric’s hip that marked him as Damon’s own, and let his fingers linger there a moment. Too soon, he pulled away and eased himself off the couch.

“What are you doing?” Alaric asked, exhaustion evident in his tone.

“I’m not going to beg, but I’m not going to watch you die, either.” He wasn’t smiling. “I’m going to say ‘goodbye’, and I’m going to leave you to make your decision in peace. When I come back, I hope you will have drunk that.” Pointing to the glass of blood on the side table. “But I’m not sorry and I don’t regret it.” Shrugged. “At least this way I got to say goodbye.”

Damon had taken only a few steps away when Alaric called him back, standing by the fire, the glass of blood in his hand.

“Damon. Wait. Stay,” he said, throwing the glass back and swallowing it in one.


	6. Hold me like this for a hundred thousand million days

Relief nearly knocked Damon off his feet, but first things first. He blurred across the room before Alaric could recoil the way Damon knew he would, the blood immediately starting to nourish his dying body, the taste a confusing mix of ambrosia and horror.

Alaric dropped the glass, clawing at his face. Damon pulled his hands away. Led him back to the couch.

“It’s okay, Ric. Sit down.”

Alaric barely seemed aware of him. “That was -”

“Next time, it’ll taste normal. The time after that, you’ll love it. Speaking of which, you need more, so sit.” Trying to sound calm, when inside, he was dancing; he’d won. Damon Salvatore got to keep Alaric Saltzman _forever_.

By the time Damon was back with the blood bags, Alaric had poured, and knocked back, two glasses of bourbon. Damon handed two bags to Alaric and drank one himself. Alaric wore a strange expression, quite aside from the blackening capillaries around his eyes, the new cant to his jaw. “Fuck,” he said quietly. “You’re right.”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” Damon snickered. “I’m always right.” Watched as Alaric drained both bags, the veins in his face rippling and then receding again. “Don’t let that drip on the couch,” he warned, taking the empty bags.

Alaric’s eyes were closed, his body twitching, like he was riding the wave of a really memorable orgasm. Damon grinned, straddled Alaric where he sat. “You look so fucking hot right now,” he murmured into Alaric’s mouth, flicking his tongue in to taste the blood still lingering there. Alaric lurched, wrapping strong arms (strong, strong arms, Damon noted gleefully; no more holding back, this was going to be _so much fun_ ) around Damon and pulling him in for a rough, hard kiss.

“How do you feel?” Damon asked, pulling Alaric’s t-shirt over his head. Alaric was starting to look more like himself now, his usual easy grin settling back over his features; but there was something else there, too, and Damon was going to find out what it was. Right now, though, he had other things on his mind, like getting them both out of their clothes.

Alaric pulled Damon’s t-shirt off and shuddered. “We’re both filthy,” he said, seeing the dried blood all over Damon’s pale, toned chest.

“You want to stop and get cleaned up?” It was a rhetorical question. “It’s not really bothering me, but if you want to…” Damon murmured appreciatively when his hand found the rapidly growing bulge in Alaric’s jeans. Tore at buckle and buttons and pulled Alaric onto the ground.

Alaric smiled against his mouth. “I’m fine,” he rasped, tugging at Damon’s jeans. “This is taking too long.”

Alaric’s first experience of moving at vampire speed was dedicated to getting them both naked, something which Damon felt boded very well for the next few hundred years. Damon lay on top of him, there in front of the roaring fire, kissing down his throat and across his chest, while Alaric took Damon’s cock in his huge hand, tugging with long, slow strokes.

Damon groaned, every muscle in his body responding to the touch.

“Can you feel how much stronger you are?” he asked, taking Alaric’s nipple between his teeth.

“Fuck, yeah. I feel…” Alaric let his eyes drift shut a moment as Damon started to return the favour. “I think I feel everything.” He tensed and relaxed, trying to adjust to the new smells, the tiny sounds he’d now have to learn to ignore, the electricity crackling across his nerves.

Damon smirked. He’d known this was a good idea.

Alaric gripped the back of Damon’s head, opening his mouth wider, drawing Damon’s tongue inside as he increased the speed of his hand on Damon’s cock. Damon drew air between his front teeth as he felt his balls swell. At almost the same time, Alaric gave a shout, and the skin between their bodies was slick with come.

Long moments later, Alaric was still boneless and incoherent, and Damon had to fight the urge to laugh. He ran a hand down Alaric’s side, across the now-healed ribs and down to his hip.

At exactly the same time, as Damon reached the spot with his hand, they both looked for the scar. It was still there, the ghosted rings, and their eyes found each other, small smiles of relief. “Still mine,” Damon said, placing his lips over the scar, tonguing it softly. “Mine forever. That’s the beauty of eternity.” Alaric relaxed, rubbing circles into Damon’s shoulder.

“I wonder how Liz is gonna feel about two vampires on the Founder’s Council?”

Damon scoffed. “They’d all be dead if it wasn’t for us. She’ll cope.”

“I have to quit teaching, right? Fall semester starts in three weeks.”

Damon laid his head on Alaric’s chest. “Yep. For a while, anyway, until you get used to the blood lust. You’d eat half the senior class if you went in tomorrow.” Alaric groaned. Damon lifted his head again. “Oh, and our little secret? Not a secret any more.” He wasn’t asking. Alaric nodded. Reluctantly, Damon rose to his knees, and then stood.

“Where are you going?” Alaric asked.

“ _We_ are going to get cleaned up. Lucky there’s a lot of bathrooms here. You smell like sex and death which is usually a great combination for me, but the sun’s coming up -”

Alarmed, Alaric looked up; sure enough, around the edges of the heavy curtains, light was starting to seep in. He felt for his ring; although it wouldn’t have helped him, perhaps it made him feel safer.

“So I’m going to give you a celebratory blow job in the shower, and then we’re going to get all nice and clean and presentable and get Bonnie to spell you a ring.” Damon pulled on his filthy jeans. “Ready?”

Alaric did the same, eyes darting to Damon every few moments.

Damon rolled his eyes. “What?”

Alaric shook his head. “You’ve never compelled me,” he said, somewhat incredulous. “Even before you promised. You’ve never compelled me.”

Damon grinned. “Totally self-serving, I can assure you,” he said, grabbing Alaric’s hand. “No chick-flick moments, please. Shower time.”


	7. We’ll be here forever and we’ll never say goodbye

When Bonnie entered the library, Alaric was sitting on the couch, a glass of bourbon in his hand, and Damon was standing by the fireplace, arms crossed, looking supremely pleased with himself.

“Hey, Ric,” she said, once she could see his face. “Getting an early start?”

He looked embarrassed. “Helps with the cravings, apparently.” Gave a weak smile.

“Of course. Drink away. Please.” Bonnie could almost feel Damon rolling his eyes from where he stood.

“Can we get on with this? Please? We’ve got _things_ to do. Fun _vampire_ things.” He smirked at Bonnie, but she wasn’t taking the bait. Bonnie shot Damon a look, and nodded.

She turned back to Alaric. “Did you pick a ring?”

“This one,” he said, indicating the chunkier of the two. “It’s about the same weight as my old one. Just feels right on my hand.”

Bonnie nodded. “Come stand here, by the curtains. You have to be close to the ring, and it has to be bathed in sunlight, so…” She reached for the heavy damask. “Take a step back, just to be safe.”

Damon helped her settle the curtains into place. “Now what?” he asked.

This would be the second time Bonnie delivered this speech. She hoped it would be the last. “Now’s the part where I explain the rules,” she started. “The witch who spells the ring has the power to de-spell it. So if you ever do anything to hurt anyone, I will stop you.”

She delivered this last with all the power of her bloodline dripping from her voice, eight feet tall and bullet proof, but to her consternation, Alaric didn’t look offended, or angry.

He looked hurt.

“Bonnie, I… wouldn’t.” his voice faltered.

“You’re a vampire now, Ric. That urge is going to be there. Even anchored to your humanity…”

“I know it’s gonna be hard, but I won’t. And if I do, don’t worry about the ring, you can stake me yourself.” Damon uttered a cry of protest, but Alaric went on. “I know what you did for me, Bonnie. Thank you.” He could barely meet her eyes.

For a moment, Bonnie almost felt bad. Shook it off and opened Emily’s grimoire, though she knew the words by heart now. A soft breeze blew through the room.

“There,” she said, passing Alaric the ring. He settled it onto his hand, smiled ruefully, and threw open the curtains.

“Thanks, Bonnie,” he said.

With a satisfied smirk, Damon said “You can come in now.”

Apparently, Elena and Stefan had been waiting on the other side of the door, and at Damon’s word, they practically tripped over each other to get inside.

Elena blithely raced to Alaric’s side and threw her arms around him. Awkwardly, he half-returned the embrace, and then started to push her away.

“Uh… Elena?”

Stefan was there in a flash, leading her gently away.

“Sorry. It’s gonna take a while before you don’t smell like food.”

Elena looked shocked. “Sorry. I forgot.”

“What have I missed?” demanded Caroline, slipping into the room. “You did it, right?”

“I did it.” Alaric returned Caroline’s hug easily, and Elena looked jealous.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Damon spluttered. “This isn’t _cotillion_. We’re not introducing Ric to polite society. Is anyone else coming?”

Elena looked guilty. “Jeremy.”

Damon growled. “Why?”

“He was Jeremy’s guardian, Damon,” Elena chided.

It occurred to Bonnie that Damon and Alaric probably really wanted to be alone, and that she should maybe say something, but this was way too entertaining to watch. She decided to let it unfold.

Caroline and Elena disappeared into the kitchen, came back to the library with trays of coffee, cream, donuts Caroline had picked up on the way to the boarding house. Four mugs of warm blood. Caroline passed one to Alaric, chinked their mugs together.

“Cheers,” she said, capillaries darkening as she took a swig.

“This is just too weird,” Alaric answered, drinking deeply.

Stefan turned to his brother, taking another mug, passing one over. “So what happened last night? Hey, Jeremy,” he added, seeing him enter the library.

“Hey. So, Ric, you know you’re like the fourth parent I’ve had who’s died?” At least Jeremy had the good sense not to get too close, just shook Alaric’s hand.

Elena flipped her hair. “He’s _my_ sixth.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Alaric scratched his head. “But it’s not like it’s my first time. And I was never really a parent. More like a drunken uncle.”

Stefan turned back to his brother. “So what happened last night?”

“You know the punchline,” Damon said. What does the rest even matter?” But in the face of five sets of curious eyes, he relented and told the story. Alaric threw in a few details, looking a little more relaxed.

At the end of the story, Stefan looked at Alaric with something like concern. “Anything you need, man. Just ask.” Alaric nodded gratefully. Damon rolled his eyes. Bonnie suspected that anything Alaric needed, Damon was going to be first in line to give it to him.

Over the last half an hour, Damon and Alaric slowly drifted closer, and now they were only inches apart, leaning against a book shelf. Bonnie couldn’t help it, with any of them, even Caroline, she looked at any vampire and the first thing she saw was: Vampire.

Still, seeing them standing so close together, Damon angled in such a way that he looked almost protective, they looked…

Sort of beautiful, together. She cocked her head as if to seek a new angle.

“So what’s he like?” Caroline was asking. Alaric shot Damon a confused look.

“What do you mean?” Elena asked, leaning into Stefan.

“Well, I was all neurotic and bitchy, although I’m doing okay with that now, and Stefan’s all angsty and writing in his diary like constantly, and Damon’s all… Damony. Which is to say in love with Katherine and hell-bent on revenge. What’s Ric like? What’s been… heightened or whatever?”

Alaric looked as though he felt like a specimen under a microscope. Aiming for offended and just hitting bewildered.

Damon narrowed his eyes, seeming to consider this. “So far, I’m going with… earnest.”

Alaric chuckled, relaxing again. “Really? That’s the best you can do?”

“I’ll add ‘badass’,” Bonnie said. “Ric’s anchored to his humanity. He can’t pull a Stefan on us. He and Damon are going to tear around the tri-state area killing vampires and keeping us all safe _forever_.”

She ignored Elena’s lame attempt to sound offended.

“Agreed. More earnest, more badass. What else…” Damon clicked his fingers in a typically dramatic fashion. “More _mine_.” He closed the distance between them and kissed Alaric, firm and determined, but not showy. Possessive as all get-out.

Everyone but Bonnie looked up in shock. A moment too late, Bonnie remembered she should as well, but no one had noticed her utter lack of surprise.

Alaric was grinning lazily, when Stefan finally spoke. “You two…”

“Yep. For thr-”

“Two years,” Alaric interjected, making Bonnie wonder where Jenna fit in the timeline.

“Two years,” Damon agreed. “And if anyone has a problem with it, I strongly recommend they die in a fire.” He cocked his head and smirked. “Enjoy the donuts. We have stuff to do.”

He grabbed Alaric’s hand, and they headed for the door. Bonnie grinned.

At the last moment, Alaric turned. “Bonnie?”

She tipped her chin, waiting. He crossed the room, hand in his pocket. He pulled something out, and Bonnie’s heart skipped a beat.

“As weird as it sounds, I don’t know many people who aren’t supernatural.” He held out the ring. “Do you wanna give this to Matt? He’ll have to give it back to Elena if she has kids, but…”

Bonnie closed her hand over the ring. “Yeah. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” Alaric nodded, turned away. “Ric?” He stopped again. Bonnie fought the urge to offer a fierce hug. “Thank you.”

Ric gave a lazy grin. “You too.”

In the doorway, Damon was making impatient noises.

Maybe it would work out after all. Team badass. She wished them luck.


End file.
